Tuesday, June 17, 2014

I’d been living in a
garage in a rapidly gentrifying part of Hogtown. One of those garages that’s
under the house. Everything in the place was done to the nines – but not
over-furished. My ex-wife liked it fairly empty in a stylish way. She and the
cat were living in all those big rooms and I rarely went upstairs. We’d stopped
talking a few years earlier and it was ghostly. Reminded me of Katherine
Hepburn in the movie version of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night. The way her son hears her upstairs, walking
with her dead all night, up and down the halls and rooms, creaking footsteps. A
family shredded by booze and drugs, the great American melodrama.

I was making good coin but
had a huge junk habit – I mean like an oil-burnin pig. I couldn’t do enough of
the shit. In that dark garage, my bike for company – my old school Japanese
screamer. She spoke the only language I could hear.

And I was putting out the
junk in a large way. It went with driving escorts all night in my shitbox
Mazda. Good girls for the most part. Not stupid enough to slave at McDonald’s
or any other toxic waste dump for almost no money. At least sellin pussy is
honest. Here’s what you get for your money – straight up. Not telling you this
here poisonous slop is actually edible. Suckin on pussy, fuckin pussy, bangin
ass, gettin head, that won’t give you a stroke or a heart attack or bad cholesterol
or make you a fat slob.

So I was in this dark
garage with my Japanese bitch and selling junk and running women and picking up
my mute wife at the train station every afternoon when she got home from that
fucking career of hers. I’d think ‘Whatever
happened to my beautiful bohemian princess?’ She got herself a profession
and a mortgage.

She rationed words with an
eye-dropper, a few syllables of mumbled sideways talk – the heart of our
‘problem’: My all-consuming habit. A tacit understanding developed – a
logistical mythology that things weren’t actually that bad. But it is always that
bad, it’s always a fuckin disaster.

My only life raft, the
novel I was writing about our earlier life in Montreal, when I used to call my
ex-wife ‘Slim.’ A novel called Mount
Royal, the street drug whoring club art underground scene in that once open
city, under that mountain. Nobody had to have a job. There weren’t any anyway.
The city was a basket case. It was lovely. The whole nagging feeling you should
wake up early and get ahead, that was blown out of the water. Nobody was getting
ahead. Such thinking was very stupid, like making firm plans to win the
lottery.

So here we were, a bunch
of years later and living in Hogtown, actual property owners, sadly having
outgrown our sweet elitist slumming in Montreal. Hogtown was a penal colony of
the soul. I was flying around town day and night and trained my customers to
leave me alone for a couple hours each morning when I worked on that novel. I
began writing for a local mag, stories about running escorts and selling junk –
my daily life, the only thing I know how to write about. They published a
couple stories.

Within moments my life
turned four dimensional. The improbable became physical law. Some woman,
literally on the other side of the planet, ended up with one of my stories in
her email. How To Murder Your Children
For Fun And Profit. She deleted it and it came back, five times. She
finally read it in the middle of a beer drunk, then wrote the magazine and
demanded to know if this shit was real. They ignored her. She wrote them again and
heaped scorn on the editors for not having the manners to respond.

They wrote me and asked
wtf is up with this woman – why is she abusing us? Do you know her? I said no,
not a clue. Forward me the email.

I wrote her back. She was
in my face right away, wanting to know if my stories were bullshit or what.
“No, it’s what I do. My job.”

And that kicked off
countless long emails back and forth for some months before she finally sent a
photo. And of course she was a rare sight – long slinky bod, classic celtic
beauty, confident, sublime, complex as hell, a free flowing larger-than-life
presence.

We got close over the
phone, she drunk, me high. One time after dealing with a customer, I forgot to turn
my phone off and climbed on my Japanese screamer and raced across town to the
methadone clinic in 4pm Friday afternoon gridlocked traffic. She heard it all,
came along for the howling ride.

She heard me and my
sleeper beauty Suzuki, both of us swearing at the traffic, white line fever.
Stop lights, rights of way – feh. That shit’s for tax payers in tin box cages.

Glory. Glorious is when you wrap your legs around her
high-compression head and twist her ear and hang the fuck on cuz she will do
her best to toss your ass onto the hard road then go skittering off to smash
into a bunch of shit, cars and people, while you are run over several times by halfwits
in the vehicles coming up behind you. They will aim for your bouncing, crumpled
body. It will be passive-aggressive vengeance – for the million slights and
insults of sportbikes that have gone zooming past while car driving idiots sit
entombed in traffic.

It’s very hot two-wheeled
fucking. She launches you into the stratosphere and it’s nothing but time warp.
Sound becomes past tense, too fast to be in the present – just future and past.
You’ve gone past before it’s happened. You’re already beyond that horizon up
ahead. You gulp and feel like you’re gonna shit yourself cuz it is a luscious, drawn
out terror, absolute and irrevocable. That ticket gets punched only once. The
guarantee is written on the back. You feel a tiny front end tingle – maybe the
beginning of a bad wobble that will become a tank slapper, break your thumbs
and hurl you into a swimmer’s cliffside deadly dive, arcing far down the road.
But you show faith, put the chin of your full-face helmet on her tank and say:
“There’s nothin but us, baby…” You coo and cajole, finally sob and wail inside
your helmet, blink away the tears. You close your eyes for long moments and
dream of how you’ll be together forever if it all stops right now. It’s far beyond romantic. It’s
epic. This is the purest glory.

The road becomes a dark
gray triangular blur ahead of her nose. On either side, the passing world is a
dark flashing history of then. You’re
past it before it’s happened – you negate experience. Together you erase time. It’s
history before future. There is only you and her empire of the stratosphere.
Risk a glance at the gauges – tach and speedo needles buried, everything
illuminated a fiery orange red. Right now right here - everything but precisely what you are doing together will kill you
both.

I phone her from the
darkness. She’s twelve hours in the future. I call from all kinds of roadside
shitholes. Gas stations, bars, donut shops, abandoned mom and pop restaurants, shut
down and overgrown before they were opened. I jerk off to her voice while
standing next to my bike at the edge of the highway. She gets me to cum on the
tank, on the seat, on her voice as night traffic thunders past, the endless
herd of single-minded horses. I get very hard for her over the phone. I listen
to her play with her pussy, hear her knock shit over while frantically reaching
from her bed for anything to stick in there, anything vaguely cock shaped, plastic
deodorant tube, bottle of face cream, whatever the fuck, dying to tell me those
words: “I’m coming, baby. I am coming for you.”

It’s insanely romantic,
unheard of, patently implausible. Nobody believes me. She calls long distance
from an exploding new universe as it forms on the end of her clit. I cry to
her, tell her I am old and dying and I am fevered. She sweet talks me while she
jerks off and weeps, pleads with me. But practical also – one more good wank
just in case I kill myself on that stupid bike and she never gets to dig her
claws into my back. Just in case. Six months of a thousand Victorian novels
mixed with a million desperate doomed wartime affairs, missed chances you can
rewind and replay to make them real and whole and I promise her: One day I will feel you tremble in my arms.

In an airport hotel room,
out in the generic wasteland of Hogtown. I show up with bags full of booze at
8:43 in the morning. She’s a veteran boozer but it’s done her brain and her looks
more good than harm, long and tall and perfect breasts and a tight ass and
she’s older than anybody but me.

Our first words are only
breathing, exhales of relief. It’s beyond cinematic. Even The Night Porter pales next to this. Routine will be hunted down
and killed. Reasonable expectations will face cursory show trials then be summarily
executed. Rationale is tortured and beheaded before a cheering crowd. It’s a global
revolution of filthy whispers. Her mind is a scalpel and easy slices off thin
layers of me. She reminds me of being in the grip of elated terror on my bike,
middle of a desert night. I feel her tremble in my arms. Her mouth tastes like
the future, a larger planet than this one.

“Do you want a drink?” she mumbles, her lips
raised to my cheekbone.

“No.”

I push her ass onto the
bed, yank off her black tights. She rolls with it, unsurprised. She clasps her
hands behind her head and looks down, an objective observer. She’s been through
an army of guys and has much to compare with. I have ideas of a slow, slithering,
very graceful progression from her high arches and lithe ankles, wend my way up
those endless legs. But the fire in my head grinds out the words: “Fuck this…” as she catches the look in
my eye and slides her thighs apart. The waft of her dripping wet pussy makes my
eyes roll back, a pussyhound zombie Frankenstein golem. I’m shaking. My cock
leaks and throbs, brain hammers in my skull. I run my lips along that
incredibly soft, smooth inside of her thighs. Her surface reaches for my mouth.
Her pussy is dark but demure, lovely and modest, nice little quaffed hair-do.
The first hint of her taste gets me instantly, lyrically high, like the
mythical and impossibly rare opium everyone’s heard of but has never done. She
tastes ocean salty, hard pearl clit on my tongue.

I take her whole pussy in
my big mouth. All of her pussy and me, we kiss slowly, tenderly, those full
lips full of dark heat. I neck with her pussy, we French kiss. I stick my
tongue down her pussy’s throat. I suck up the sound coming from her, the low
moan of our underwater world…

From Excessica Books...

Excerpt from new novel...

Getting nailed by those badge-wearing bumpkins not only cost me my hot-assed old school Suzuki but their petty jealousies have been following me around, cramp the fuck out of my style, like a wet sack of shit across the neck. Everything goes wrong; missed chances, sub-par dope, strings of minor but galling hassles... READ MORE